


The Walls Are Giving Way

by Stratisphyre



Series: Burned Away, Ignored [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/pseuds/Stratisphyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heroes have soul marks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walls Are Giving Way

**Author's Note:**

> It's not tagged, but please be aware some not very nice things happen to a child at the beginning of this fic. Nothing graphic, but caveat lector.

Dorian’s mark comes in at ten.

He’s at a party, trying to make nice with the son of one of his father’s allies, when the boy in question leans in and whispers in his ear. “Come on.”

The boy—Cladius—grabs his hand and drags him down a flight of stairs, away from the party and into the narrow hallways that run beneath the manor. Dorian’s heart is hammering hard in his chest, excitement and thrill of the forbidden trying to rob him of his coordination. He half-stumbles when his feet bump into Cladius’ ankles, and the other boy laughs.

“Watch your step, Pavus.” He’s got a beautiful smile and Dorian fights down a blush.

He stops in front of a thin wood door. There’s no latch, and Dorian frowns when he realizes they’ve reached the slave quarters.

“What are we doing here?” he asks.

“I want to show you something.”

Cladius pushes open the door. There’s a single elf within, dressed in finer clothes than Dorian’s family provide to their slaves. She drops to the ground when they walk in, her forehead pressed against the stone floor.

“Master Cladius,” the elf whispers.

Dorian shifts uncomfortably, his skin feeling tight across his bones.

Cladius pulls a small pocketknife from the recesses of his robes. Dorian’s eyes widen and he grabs Cladius’ hand. Cladius laughs at him again. The sound loses its appeal. “Don’t worry. I learned this from my father.”

He twists around in Dorian’s grasp and tilts Dorian’s arm up. “It won’t hurt.” He pushes up the sleeve of Dorian’s robe until his upper arm is exposed. “Father says you should always take blood from here. It hurts less than your hand.”

“Wha—” Dorian gasps as the blade slides across his skin, scoring a thin line in his flesh. Wet warmth follows quickly, and Cladius begins whispering. Magic chokes the air around them—not like Dorian’s magic, still in its infancy and playful in the way it dances across his skin. Cladius’ magic feels wrong. The air is thick with the smell of copper and rot, but when Dorian tries to pull his arm away, Cladius’ hold tightens. He’s bigger than Dorian—at least five years older, broader through the shoulders—and struggling gets him nowhere.

“I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” Cladius says. It’s probably supposed to sound reassuring. “Watch.”

He begins waving his hand and the slave begins to dance.

Her movements are slow and without grace; as though there are weights attached to her limbs. Dorian stares in horror as her body tries to pivot on her ankle and her foot twists at an angle that it shouldn’t possibly be able to move at. She follows through, and there’s a hard crack. Dorian’s stomach lurches and he looks at Cladius in horror. Cladius watches, enraptured, his arms moving as though he’s conducting an orchestra as well as directing the elf’s dancing.

The elf is smiling. Her eyes are screaming.

“Stop,” Dorian whispers.

Cladius ignores him.

Dorian’s arm stings.

He can’t look away.

He has to look away.

He turns his attention on Cladius and with all the strength in his body, he launches himself at Cladius’ side. The force of impact is enough for Cladius to lose his concentration and the elf falls to the ground as her twisted ankle gives out from under her. Dorian’s not strong enough to do much more, but he tries to lay a blow on Cladius’ stomach.

“You don’t do blood magic!” he shouts. “It’s evil.” His father has told him a hundred stories of twisted Maleficar and the horrors they conjure up with blood magic.

Cladius snorts in amusement and brushes Dorian away like he’s nothing. “She’s just a slave, Pavus. It’s allowed if they’re slaves. Ask anyone.”

Dorian throws himself at Cladius again. Cladius catches him by the front of his robes and throws him against the nearest wall. Dorian hears a sick smacking sound, and it doesn’t occur to him that it was his own head coming into contact with stone until he’s blinking through the sudden grey around his vision. Dorian grabs his head, tears springing to his eyes as pain begins filtering into his awareness. His hands feel wet.

Cladius grabs for him again. Dorian doesn’t try to duck so much as slide to the floor out of his grasp.

Cladius kneels down. “Everyone does it,” he sneers. “Even your father.” Dorian tries to shake his head, but it hurts too much. “Even you.”

“No,” Dorian whispers. He doesn’t know if he’s actually speaking or just thinking the words too loudly in his mind. “No. I won’t. Not ever.”

Cladius snorts. “You will.” He stands up. “Clean him up,” he snaps over his shoulder. He disappears from Dorian’s vision.

A moment later, the slave is sliding into his vision. Dorian swings his hand uselessly at her. “I want my father,” he sobs.

She leaves him—he thinks, he’s not really sure, his eyes are fuzzy and the room is spinning—and he’s glad she’s gone, because seconds later he throws up; he doesn’t want anyone to see him sick.

Why does his side hurt, too?

Eventually, his father finds him. He sounds angry, though Dorian doesn’t think he’s the one his father is angry at. He coaxes a potion down Dorian’s throat and scoops him up off the floor. Dorian’s face is roughly wiped, and then he’s only vaguely aware of being carried. His head hurts less, but the memory of pain is still there, pressing like thick cloth against his senses. He’s tired.

“Years of playing crony to that horrible family,” his mother is saying when he regains some awareness. “Wasted.”

“We don’t truck with Maleficar,” his father says. He holds Dorian a bit closer.

“Everyone uses blood magic.” There’s the smell of the perfumed oil Dorian’s mother uses at her neck, and the scent suddenly makes Dorian feel sick all over again. Or maybe it’s just the echo of Cladius’ words.

Dorian passes out before his father can argue.

He wakes briefly when they arrive at home, and the slaves undress him, wash his hair and get him tucked into bed. His eyes feet hot and overtired, though he slept most of the way home, and he presses his face into his pillow. He enchanted it to make it stay cool—his first real spell—and there’s a certain amount of comfort in feeling his own magic thrumming through the fabric. Despite the healing potion, his side still feels raw. Did he scrape it on the wall? If his arms didn’t feel so heavy, he’d check it himself.

He falls asleep with his hand pressed against his side and dreams of broken bones and eyes that scream and offers of power to prevent such monstrosities from ever happening again.

The slaves throw open his window the next morning to allow the sun to rouse him before his lessons can begin. Dorian moans a bit and rolls back over. The potion has worked its will, and he’s feeling worlds better than he had the night before. It doesn't encourage him to get out of bed however; he isn't in any hurry to spend his morning reading Ancient Tevene love poetry, even if he did spend hours figuring out the right translation for the last couplet.

The smell of porridge finally coaxes him out of bed; they’ve left breakfast for him next to the window, along with the books he’ll need for his lessons. His family’s slaves are diligent about getting his ready for the morning; if he isn't prepared for his instructor at exactly the right time, they’ll get an earful from his mother.

_it’s allowed if they’re slaves_

Dorian loses his appetite. He pokes at the bowl for a moment then moves to get dressed instead.

He’s all but forgotten the wound in his side until he’s pulling his nightshirt off over his head and his hand brushes against the tender skin. He gasps—aren’t potions supposed to be extra-good at small cuts and scrapes?—and looks down.

It looks like… ink?

He frowns and twists, trying to get a better look. It only takes him a moment to realize: _it’s his mark._

Dorian barely manages to pull on his trousers before tearing out of his room. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, the blood thrumming through his veins singing in his ears: his soulmate. His soulmate. He has a _soulmate_. And it has to be something he did last night that made it so they’d meet. Has to be something special.

He slows as he nears his father’s study, breathless with excitement. His parents don’t have soul marks, but his father has told him about them countless times; every tale building upon the last. Heroes have soul marks, as everyone knows.

He knocks rapidly on the door and doesn’t wait for his father’s call before he barrels in.

“Papa.” His father barely has a chance to look up from his work before Dorian is barreling into his arms. “Look, look, look. I think it appeared last night. It still hurts, but that’s fine. I’m not sad that it hurts because _look._ ”

He leans backwards in his father’s lap to show him.

His father searches it out, and the affection on his face immediately fades to blankness. He slides his fingers over the mark and Dorian squirms to get away from the touch. He doesn’t seem happy.

“Papa?” Dorian whispers.

“Go close the door, Dorian,” he says. His voice is lead. Dorian obeys, joy draining away. Once the door closes behind him, he turns back to his father. Halward Pavus—he feels like he barely knows his father right now—is staring at his mark. Dorian lifts a hand to cover it, self-conscious and wondering whether he shouldn’t be ashamed.

His father blinks away his shock.

“Do you know what that word is, Dorian?”

Dorian shakes his head. He hadn’t been able to get a good look at it.

His father—Halward—stands and scans the books filling the many shelves until he happens upon the one he’s looking for. He flips it open and turns it towards Dorian. Dorian stares at the intricately illustrated page, filled with carefully-inked pictures of letters he doesn’t know.

“It’s beautiful,” his whispers.

“It’s Qunlat,” Halward says, flatly.

Dorian startles as though burned. “That’s…”

“The Qunari. The animals that drove your Uncle Victan from his home and left him a pauper. Enemies of Tevinter. Dorian.” He snaps the book shut. “Your soulmate cannot be Qunari.”

Dorian clutches at his side again. “Maybe he’ll be a good Qunari.”

“It would bring about the destruction of our family. Our deaths, Dorian. As long as you bear that mark, you are walking treason. Do you understand?”

Dorian’s breath won’t leave his lungs.

“It must be removed.”

Dorian shakes his head. “No.”

“Dorian.” Halward crosses the floor and kneels down in front of him. “You are very dear to me. My sweet little boy. I want what’s best for you. We all must make sacrifices for the good of the family, my boy. To protect the Pavus name and our family’s legacy.” Dorian tries to pull away, and Halward grabs hold of his shoulders. “I cannot let you risk your life for some beast you may never have the misfortune of coming across. Not while there’s something within my power that will protect you.”

“But I want my soul mark,” Dorian whispers. His shoulders are already slumping.

“No you don’t,” Halward tells him. Dorian looks down and away, and Halward stands. “It must be removed. I’ll go inform your tutor that you will not be attending lessons for the remainder of the week. That should give it time to heal.”

Dorian presses his palm against his mark, even though it still hurts. Maybe he can press it deep enough into the skin that it will stay even after his father takes it away. “Will it hurt?”

“Yes.” His father runs a hand through his hair. “Very much. But you can be brave.”

* * *

_you can be brave_

* * *

When he runs from his father, his birthright and his homeland, Dorian thinks, _yes, I can be brave_.

When he receives a letter from Felix outlining Alexius’ insanity, Dorian thinks _yes, I can be brave._

When he joins the Inquisition, Dorian thinks _yes, I can be brave._

When he sees his name written on The Iron Bull’s back and Bull tells him that he has no desire to ever find his soulmate, Dorian thinks, _I am a coward_.

He says nothing.

* * *

When they return from Crestwood—the cherished bruises Bull left on his hips faded to small patches of yellow he can barely see—Dorian makes a strategic and well-thought-out retreat. He keeps to himself in the library, tucked in and clinging to his books as though he can imprint himself on the pages and obtain some measure of permanence through particular devotion. He’s not prepared to pull out the knife he feels buried in his chest when he considers his recently-acquired knowledge, so instead he sets to the task of reorganizing as much of the library as he can into something resembling order. Skyhold’s library is unfortunately anemic, however, and he gets most of his self-assigned task done within a few days of returning.

At meals, he remains cool and indifferent; these people aren’t his friends and most seem to barely tolerate him anyway, for all they are civil. Evelyn keeps shooting him worried glances from her seat at the head of the table, but he slips in after everyone else is seated and out before they break to leave, and takes small comfort in sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with people he trusts not to spit in his foot. Not while he’s watching, at any rate.

It’s not so much that Dorian doesn’t want to speak to Evelyn; it’s just that her particular brand of compassionate heroism wouldn’t do him much good in such circumstances. He has to muddle through these new injuries himself, and the faster he can make himself forget, the faster they’ll scar over and be just another glossy reminder of regret. What more does he deserve, after all? It’s not as though he has a soul mark of his own; his cowardice at a young age made sure of that.

Sometimes, he thinks of the child he was and hates him intensely.

He’s considering rearranging a long section of shelves again when one of Leliana’s runners comes to seek him out.

“Your input is required in the tower,” the young woman tells him. She’s much better at keeping the disdain out of her voice than off her face.

“My input?” he repeats.

“For the library there. Third floor. The builders will be moving a few books over, and they’d like to know which ones.”

She disappears back down the stairs before he can point out that it would be easier for him to direct them from the library’s current location, but then again the Inquisition has a reputation of charging headfirst into action before thinking things through—the product of young leadership, or so he’s always thought—and he sighs to himself and heads to the construction site of the new tower.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be quite so surprised to find it empty save for Evelyn, waiting in anticipation.

“Ambush is such a garish way of going about things,” he points out.

Evelyn’s lips purse in a slightly priggish way, which is not at all attractive. “I need you to help me with this, Dorian, because all I know is that you had sex with Bull and suddenly got weird and distant, and there's really only so many assumptions I can make. So you need to correct or confirm them so I know whether I need to go and kick his ass.”

Dorian has done nothing in his entire life to make him worthy of a friend such as Evelyn Trevelyan. “Nothing so dramatic as you’ve imagined, my dear.” She looks unconvinced, and prepared to launch another volley of concern. “It’s just. He has a soul mark.” It’s almost as hard to say as it was to see.

Evelyn’s brow furrows. “And? So do I. When I meet them, I assume they'll be understanding about any paths I took on the road to find them.”

Dorian leans against the banister behind him and begins studying his nails so he’ll have something to look at besides her eyes. “Yes. Well. Bull isn't interested in finding his soulmate. Quite the opposite. He’s set on having his mark removed entirely.”

“Then what's the problem?”

Dorian’s voice feels choked in his throat, but he muscles through it. “Let's just say his soulmate isn't dealing with the fact very gracefully.”

It only takes her a moment before her mouth forms an understanding ‘oh’ and the furrow in her brow shifts from confusion of sympathy.

“If the next two words out of your mouth are 'oh Dorian' I am going to be forced to do something drastic,” he informs her brusquely.

Evelyn’s mouth snaps shut. She waits a heartbeat before joining him against the banister. They lean slightly into each other’s space, not touching but sharing body heat all together.

“Does he know it’s you?” she finally asks.

“Does it matter?”

“It might,” she shrugs. “To him. It’s easy to say you don’t want a thing when it’s a hypothetical. It’s harder when it’s a thing you already know and care about.”

For all Dorian wishes he could think of some witty riposte, nothing comes to mind.

“Should I begin changing things up a bit? You two work pretty well toge… ohhh.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Please. As though you wouldn’t be completely at a loss without the two of us to keep you from being squished.”

“Last time I checked, I was the one who made sure you had a barrier up when that giant was taking a swing at you.”

“One instance doesn’t suggest a pattern, dear.”

Evelyn’s mouth drops in faux outrage, her eyes dancing with amusement. “It sounds to me like you and I need to go down to the practice yard and figure out who’s guarding whom.”

He allows her to bully him out of the tower and to the training yard, where she pushes a lightweight practice staff in his hands. He has to admit, as they take turns throwing spells at each other, that there’s a strange sort of joy associated with blowing things up. It’s quite freeing.

* * *

Because life is unkind—a truism Dorian has known since before he could articulate the fact—Evelyn hands him a letter from his father little more a week after he makes the unfortunate discovery that his soulmate wants absolutely nothing to do with him. 

It’s not the first time his father has tried something underhanded; Dorian made the mistake of visiting a distant cousin in Orlais his first year on the run, and Halward sent his mother to try and cajole him back home.

“He’s bought you an absolutely lovely body slave,” his mother had said, as though it was some sort of compromise. “Such good teeth, Dorian, you’ll be shocked. And the engagement is still in place. Her family was very understanding.”

Staggered and sickened, Dorian had fled and made a point of avoiding all potential relations thereon out.

So, no. Reading about some retainer come to collect him is not a surprise.

That Halward chooses to come himself… that is a bit more shocking. Dorian parades their shameful secrets in front of Evelyn and lets her coax him away. Thank the Maker he stopped avoiding her; being alone would have been insufferable.

Before she can drag him out the door, however, he turns and glares at his father one last time. “I met him, by the way. My soulmate.” Halward looks staggered. “He’s _glorious_.”

Evelyn smiles down at her boots as she pulls Dorian away. He expects they’ll immediately return to Skyhold; there’s so much to do, after all, when it comes to saving the world. But Evelyn seems content to dawdle. They make the rounds through a few of the nearby camps, and eventually she sets up a tent near the Upper Lake. It’s particularly idyllic. Or would be, if Dorian was a creature of nature and not one of civilization. As such, he can’t help but notice that his sleeping roll happens to have been placed atop a rather large rock.

They both pretend to sleep for a while, until finally the silence becomes too much to bear.

“My parents stopped speaking with me after I was sent to Ostwick,” Evelyn whispers into the night. Dorian rolls over to look at her. “I know it’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not,” Dorian agrees. He huffs out an annoyed sigh. “We’re both such tragic heroes, aren’t we?”

Evelyn’s lips quirk up. “I’m glad you’re calling yourself a hero.”

“Don’t be.” If he was ever destined to be a hero, such destiny was burned away along with his soul mark. Heroes have soul marks, as everyone knows. He returns to his back and stares up at the roof of the tent. “They tend to come to rather pathetic ends. Or haven’t you been listening to Varric?” 

Evelyn’s hand finds his in the dark and she squeezes his fingers a bit too tightly to be entirely comfortable. Even through the lambskin glove she’s taken to wearing, he can feel the warmth emanating out from the Mark; from the magic she’s trying to master. They fall asleep like that—Dorian listening as Evelyn’s breath slowly evens out, and clutching her hand like a childhood comfort as he eases into sleep himself.

* * *

Dorian avoids the tavern for as long as he can—he might be understanding of Bull’s philosophy, but he also feels particularly betrayed by Krem, and he has absolutely no desire to have Cole parade his inner thoughts about the place like some particularly maudlin Orlesian fashion show. 

Fortunately, it’s easy to avoid the Chargers. They announce themselves rather loudly wherever they go, and their voices carry through Solas’ atrium whenever they’ve come to seek him out. For some reason none of them have ever bothered to find out the back door to the library, and it’s easy to slip away before they find him. 

Until it isn’t. 

He hears Dalish and Skinner arguing below and bids a hasty retreat, to the library’s other exit and down the stairs and directly into Krem’s arms. 

“Enough of that,” Krem says. He catches hold of the back of Dorian’s robes. 

“Cremisius,” Dorian says slowly, “if you don’t let me go this instant, all our reconstruction efforts will have been in vain.” 

Krem doesn’t even blink, just frog-marches Dorian through the main hall—past the gaggle of bemasked nobles—through the doorway that leads to the garden and around the keep until they come to an out-of-the-way room that’s long been earmarked for an Inquisition financier but has sat empty given that the duties of the position are currently being performed by Josephine, who prefers her office outside the War Room and, as he understands it, is too allergic to pollen to be quite so uncomfortably close to the courtyard. 

“Well, that was utterly mortifying,” Dorian says once the door closes behind them. He pulls away from Krem, who gamely allows him to go now that he is successfully blocking the only exit to the room, save the window and accompanying hundred foot drop. “You certainly gave the Orlesian set something to gossip about.” 

“Dorian.” Krem doesn’t have the same hard edge to his jaw that Bull does when he’s being stubborn, but the stone in his eyes could certainly qualify for competition. 

Dorian’s mouth tightened. “I don’t believe we have anything to say to one another.” 

Krem’s eyebrow quirks up, utterly unimpressed. “No?” 

“No. I’ll thank you for the time you’ve wasted on me in the misguided belief that I’ll somehow end up important to your employer, but as it stands your bootlicking is no longer required.” 

Krem snorts. “You think that’s what it was.” 

“Tell me truthfully that you weren’t extending the hand of friendship solely because you felt you were going to be saddled with me hereafter,” Dorian snaps. Krem has the audacity to look taken aback, and Dorian presses the attack. The harder he hits, the faster he’ll be allowed to leave. "You knew it was my name on his back. I should congratulate you on a skillfully executed plan; if he considered me with more affection than he does any other casual lay, you'd be in quite a comfortable position. Well done, sir. I doubt anyone in the Imperium could have done you one better. But it was all for nothing, I'm afraid. He doesn’t want me, you see. He doesn't want... he doesn't... he doesn’t want me—"

The last word is muffled into Krem’s shirt as the other man quickly crosses the room and gathers Dorian up into a hard embrace. Dorian gasps and tries to pull away, thwarted as his own arms betray him.

“Easy,” Krem whispers, as though he’s talking to one of Dennet’s spooked charges. Maybe it’s something in his tone, but Dorian stills and stops trying to pull away. He’s already spectacularly embarrassed himself; he might as well deal with the rest of whatever humiliation Krem plans to heap upon him.

“I’m not going to run,” Dorian says, his voice traitorously shaky. “Let me go.”

“I knew,” Krem admits. “No one else. Not the others. You earned those friendships on your own.” When Dorian tries to step back, this time, Krem allows it. “As for me, I figured that if you were the Chief’s soulmate, there was something about you that had to be worth knowing. Even if he didn’t change his mind.” Krem peers at him. “And I was right. Or wouldn’t you jump in to save my ass, too, if it came to it.”

Dorian sniffs, “Don’t be absurd. I’d look ridiculous with an eyepatch.”

Krem grins, because somewhere along the line Dorian has apparently become as transparent as a particularly thin petal of Prophet’s Laurel.

“Come get a drink,” Krem suggests. “Dalish is getting bored without someone there to argue with, and the last time she got bored we ended up being barred from Denerim.”

“Sounds like a story,” Dorian offers. A tentative peace, until he can be sure that Krem’s not trying to game him. From the grin stretching across his face—broad and sincere—Dorian can’t imagine that he’s much good at subterfuge anyway.

* * *

He and Bull inch back towards the easy rapport they enjoyed before Dorian discovered that but for his limited knowledge of Tevene Bull would have excised Dorian from his life. Being surrounded by the Chargers—by friends, as odd as the concept was—makes it easier. When it comes to overcoming awkward social engagements, the Chargers are better than even the strongest liquor; Dorian suspects because they tend to view ‘awkward’ as a challenge to be battered and defeated through sheer will. However it happens, he eventually stops feeling the twisting anxiety in his chest every time he looks at Bull and sees something he will never have.

They find themselves alone one evening, not long after the Dreadnought and Bull’s last remaining ties to the Qun have been severed. Bull’s pretending to drink more to keep up appearances, and Dorian’s been nursing a truly excellent red that Vivienne deemed share out of pity.

“How long have you been on the run?” Bull asks.

Dorian blinks. “What gave me away?” To the best of his knowledge, Evelyn hasn’t shared his tale of woe with anyone, though he’s unsurprised that Bull has him figured out.

“Nothing,” Bull reassures him. “I just have a good eye for fugitives.”

Dorian hums. “ _Fugitivus_ has quite a different meaning in Tevinter.” He takes a slow sip; old wood and soil, a forest floor. “My escape was much less harrowing. My freedom easier to win.”

“Don’t get sad on me,” Bull says, nudging Dorian’s leg under the table with his toe. “I know all about escaped slaves. Hell, I’ve served with companies made up entirely of viddathari who managed to get away.”

“That I’d done more in my life to aid in such escapes.” Dorian sits back. “My own was a simple affair. I slipped out the back door one night during a party and haven’t looked back since.”

“Must’ve been a pretty boring party.”

“It was an engagement party. A surprise engagement party, point of fact. Unfortunately for those involved, the groom in question had rather cold feet.” And too close an eye for detail, when it came to his father’s machinations. Dorian resists the urge to fidget. “I took nothing with me, save what I was wearing. I sold a few baubles on the road to finance my escape. Landed in Kirkwall, for a while. Not a very kind place, but one easy to get lost in.” He eyes Bull sidelong. “Have you been?”

“They ain’t too fond of Qunari anymore.”

“Of course.” Dorian places his glass down and picks it up again when he finds he misses having something in his hands. “I suppose it’s been close to five years, now. If you’re looking for insight, though, I’m afraid to say that it never gets easier, trying to seek out a replacement for a home you’ve left behind.”

“It’s probably gotten easier recently,” Bull says, gesturing widely to the room around them and still managing to encompass all of the Inquisition and the people involved.

Dorian smiles warmly into his wine. “I suppose it has.” Abruptly, he remembers why spending time with Bull is a bad idea, and he drains his glass faster than the fine vintage really deserves. “I’m going to bed. If we’re to go traipsing about in the muck tomorrow, I should at the very least get a decent night’s sleep so I’m not tired on top of being freezing and sodden.”

Bull regards him with a keen eye, but doesn’t argue. “Good night, Dorian.”

Dorian smiles blandly and retreats.

* * *

In any other world, it would make sense for Evelyn to share a tent with Cassandra and Dorian with Bull. When the two of them had tossed their sleeping rolls into the same tent, Cassandra had merely made a disgusted noise and leveled Bull with a glare so fierce that Dorian had quaked a bit on his behalf. Their camp is a short distance away from an old Dwarven thaig in which their spies have observed a number of suspicious goings on, and they have regrettably committed to exploring. Dorian does not, nor has he ever, enjoyed traipsing through old ruins. He did it a few times in Tevinter at the insistence of his tutors to gain an ‘appreciation of history’—which he’s quite certain can be obtained through diligent study and not overenthusiastic spelunking—but has practically made a habit of it as a member of the Inquisition. 

Evelyn tosses and turns restlessly, as she always does after a day’s travel—Cassandra should be thrilled to be sharing with Bull—until she finally rolls over to face him.

“How are you doing with it?” At Dorian’s bland look, she rolls her eyes. “You know what I’m talking about.”

He does. Evelyn enjoys browbeating her problems into submission as much as she does blowing them up. “I suppose the weight of my tragedy has become slightly less onerous to bear.” That doesn’t seem to relieve Evelyn’s concern, and he breathes out a flippant sigh to keep up pretenses. “I had not expected friends such as yourself to see me through it.”

Evelyn ruffles his hair. He tolerates it because setting the tent on fire would be counterproductive to getting a good night's rest.

"I'm glad." She sighs in contentment. "Have you considered looking for love elsewhere? I don't like to think of you being lonely and pining away."

"I have never, nor shall I ever _pine_ ," Dorian tells her in no uncertain terms. She snorts in such an unladylike fashion that Dorian promptly considers mimicking it for Cullen's benefit next time they play chess so the poor man knows what he's getting into. "Besides, dear, you know that you're the only person who will ever possess any significant part of my shriveled and blackened heart."

"I have a brother."

Dorian blinks. "Do you." Despite himself, he does consider this with an appropriate amount of gravitas. "Older or...?"

"Yes." Evelyn bites back a few words, and he can practically hear her frown. "Though come to think of it, my younger brother is of age now as well."

"Have no fear, my days of cradle-robbing are long behind me." Dorian tucks his hands behind his head. "Tell me of your elder brother, then."

Evelyn spins a pleasing narrative of a childhood protector who remained her only point of contact with her family after she was shuffled off to the same fate as most mage outside Tevinter. He imagines some of the tale to be exaggerated, but it's a pleasant exercise, imagining himself as happy. As part of her family.

He munurs this into the dark and Evelyn scoffs, "you're already my family."

He falls asleep smiling.

The next day, Cladius comes back into his life. Briefly. And looking at Bull's face and the dawning realization makes Dorian wonder if he'll have a chance to meet Evelyn’s brother before having to flee Skyhold.

* * *

Dorian cannot count the number of times he fantasized about “riding The Iron Bull,” despite his personal feelings on the euphemism in question. Even before he discovered his name branded on Bull’s shoulder, when it was just two men flirting and edging up towards a release of sexual tension, he had a number of vivid fantasies about Bull’s cock and the myriad entertainments it could provide. After… well. It was hard to imagine anyone else for a long time, even when he focused all his energy on doing so.

What he never imagined was waking up in Bull’s arms, his face tucked against Bull’s chest. He dared not spin a fantasy out of that sort of intimacy, struggling as it was to overcome what he saw as deserved heartache.

It makes the reality surreal, regardless of how many times he enjoys it.

Bull’s heartbeat is so much slower than a human’s, and Dorian finds himself content to listen to the sound of it thrumming in his ear.

Bull is already awake, as evidenced by the gentle slide of his fingers down Dorian’s side, and Dorian arches into the touch when it crosses a particularly sensitive patch: the edge of where his scar meets unblemished skin—Bull worries at the area as though he can retrace his name with just a touch.

Oh, that he could.

Bull’s fingers skim lower and Dorian cranes his neck to meet his soulmate’s gaze. Bull has a soft smirk curling the side of his mouth—terribly unattractive and absolutely unconvincing, though Dorian will humour him this once—and he shuffles them around until Dorian is kneeling over his pelvis. His cock brushes up against the back of Dorian’s thighs, not too hard, but obviously interested.

Dorian quirks an eyebrow. “You think so.”

Bull grins. It’s fortunate that Dorian is already kneeling, because that much affection and regard focused all on him would otherwise make his legs weak.

“I do,” Bull tells him.

Dorian’s reply is cut off when Bull’s hands slide up his thighs and come to rest on his hips, resting atop the finger-shaped bruises Dorian enjoys freshening up every so often—if he can’t have a soulmark, he’ll damn well have something to brand his skin. Bull presses against one, just for a moment, and Dorian hisses as the blunt pain sends an immediate surge of arousal dancing across his nerves.

Dorian reaches behind his back and gives Bull a few languid strokes, bringing him from interested to ready with a few skillful twists of his wrist. Bull is good at biting off the small sounds, but Dorian is learning all his weaknesses: the head of his cock is particularly sensitive—more so than any other lover Dorian has ever had—and there’s nothing guaranteed to bring him to climax faster than a half-hard pinch to his foreskin.

“Dorian,” Bull murmurs, his hips beginning a subtle thrusting, as though he can’t help himself. Dorian leans over to kiss him, reveling in the taste and the slide of his tongue against Bull’s. Bull’s hand slides away from his hip, circling around to his ass, checking. Dorian’s still open and slick from the night before, and it takes only a few heartbeats before Bull is sliding into him again.

Without preparation beyond the last night’s enjoyments, the press of Bull’s cock inside him makes him gasp and his body tenses as those minute jolts of Bull’s hips press further into him. Bull pauses—his cock barely inside, and Dorian still bent over. Dorian takes a few shuddering breaths, kisses Bull’s chest. Bull smoothes his hands down Dorian’s torso, only briefly pausing to cup his cheek.

Dorian’s body eventually adjusts, and he slowly pushes himself off Bull’s chest to allow Bull’s cock to inch inside him.

He’s sweating once he’s fully upright, and Bull catches his hands; he twines their fingers together and takes the weight of Dorian’s suddenly boneless body. It helps keep Dorian from collapsing from the stimulation—he’s overly sensitive, it seems, and he’s having trouble catching his breath. Bull remains perfectly still beneath him, the only indication that this is effecting him just as much as it effects Dorian the hitch of his breath whenever Dorian takes his own.

Dorian opens his eyes—when did they close—and catches Bull’s. He _wants_. Bull smiles, a flash of teeth, and ever so slowly begins to tilt his hips up.

It’s perfection and too much to bear, all at once. Dorian squeezes his hands, half-crushing his own fingers in his desperation to hold on. Bull’s grip never falters, although it can’t be comfortable holding his arms at such an angle. It denies him leverage, as well, and the thrusts are shallow and lack the same punch that he might deliver were his hands pressed against the bed or Dorian’s hips.

Frantic desire is driving into his mind: _more more more_ a mantra he can’t speak past the breath lodged in his throat.

Bull eases forward slowly, shifting Dorian’s hands up until he can hold onto Bull’s horns. He grips tight, and Bull pushes himself up into a sitting position without dislodging his cock. It’s miraculous. Once they’re sturdy—Bull’s battered pillows bracing his back—he finally grabs Dorian’s hips and gives a great thrust upwards.

Dorian yells, the sound torn away from him as sensation gets the better of his self-control. His grip tightens to knuckle-white, and he presses his mouth against Bull’s artlessly, not caring for anything beyond the feel of Bull’s lips on his own. Bull bites into Dorian’s mouth, soothing the way with his tongue, and kisses him deeply before setting a quickened pace. The jerk and snap of his hips drive him just deep enough that sparks begin to dance behind Dorian’s eyes, and it’s all Dorian can to do hold on.

Bull reaches for his cock, and Dorian’s climax is almost painful; practically an afterthought. He’s wrought-out and oversensitive, but when Bull tries to pull out Dorian tenses his thighs to keep him close.

Bull kisses him again, gently, before giving up any pretense of restraint and giving it to Dorian. Hard. Fast. Dorian’s world narrows down to the feeling of Bull’s cock stretching him out, the near-pain of gripping Bull’s horns so tightly, and the delicious burn of Bull’s fingers retreading the ground of his bruises.

When Bull comes, he does so quietly. Reverently. It’s with a last great thrust and the smallest of choked-off noises caught in his throat. Dorian releases his horns and hugs Bull’s neck, baring his own so Bull can sink his teeth into the tender flesh between Dorian’s neck and shoulder. The sound of his own cry drags a low whine from Bull’s throat, and his entire body stiffens for a long few moments before relaxing entirely.

He slides out of Dorian with infinite care and pulls them both down to the bed, allowing Dorian to splay across him like a cat in a field of sunlight.

Once his breathing slows, Dorian drifts into a comfortable doze. Bull burns warmer than any human, and the heat from his body makes Dorian feel languid and uselessly content. He rubs his cheek against the hard muscle of Bull’s chest, only occasionally tilting his head to press his lips against the skin for the sole purpose of licking the taste of salt from his lips.

Their breaths ease into gentle synchronicity. It happens more and more frequently, these days. Wonderful and terrifying.

“I remember the morning after my mark came in,” Dorian murmurs at long last. “How I was dreading spending time with my tutor because all he had been doing for weeks was testing my knowledge of Ancient Tevene by having me translate poetry.”

Bull chuckles. “Poetry, huh? Anything dirty?”

Dorian flicks the nearest nipple. “I was ten, you ingrate.”

Bull tenses. “Ten.” There’s a thread of violence in his voice, but Dorian soothes it away with a gentle stroke of his hand and touch of his lips.

“And the funny thing is, I can’t remember anything else about the poem except for the last two lines. They took me an eternity to translate. Ancient Tevene doesn’t have a possessive when it comes to people, you see, save when you’re referring to slaves and the irregular declension was—” Dorian sniffs to himself. He’s babbling. “It doesn’t matter.”

Bull kisses the top of Dorian’s head. “What did it say?” he murmurs.

How would it translate to the common tongue? Dorian mulls it over. “I’m afraid it won’t rhyme.” Of course, requiring poetry to have a set rhyming scheme is one of the constructs of Fereldan that Dorian shuffles in along with their piss-poor ale and over-attachment to dogs.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Marked as I am, my soul is yours, but know I give of myself freely."

Bull hums and presses another kiss into Dorian’s hair. “Nice words, kadan.”

“Yes,” Dorian whispers. “I always thought so.”

Bull wraps him in a warm embrace, and they both drift back to sleep.


End file.
